


Infatuation

by Arlome



Category: poldark
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 14:42:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12170943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlome/pseuds/Arlome
Summary: He lies awake at night.





	Infatuation

**Author's Note:**

> Written for day 7 of "Poldarkweeks" Dwight Appreciation Week on Tumblr.

He lies awake at night, the image of her exquisite face burned into his feverish brain and banning sleep from his weary eyes.

She rises in his mind's eye like Botticelli's Venus from the sea, golden locks flying like banners in the salty breeze; eyes bright and azure like foam upon the waves and lips red like freshly picked summer apples. Her figure that of a divine, celestial maiden; straight and womanly in her tight frock of silver-blue, a single droplet of pearl on a pale-blue ribbon tied to her lovely neck. 

Dwight sighs wretchedly and stares at the ceiling of his cottage, anxious sweat dampening his nightshirt and chilling his aching body. If only she would leave the district already, marry that buffoon and become the MP's wife her uncle always wanted her to be; then, oh then, he may be able to finally put this infatuation to rest, to be rid of it and cast it off him for good.

Except, it is not an infatuation at all, but, rather, something far more profound, more deep-seated; entrenched in his veins like roots of an oak tree. It boils his blood and upsets his stomach, and rises in his lungs like water in a drowning man. He breathes it in and sighs it out, horrified that _her_ name escapes with the heavy puff of air. 

No, _this_ is most assuredly _not_ an infatuation; his symptoms cannot be more clear. He is in love with the girl; irrevocably, irrationally and ardently in love with her against his better judgment. But there is precious little he can do about it.

He's seen her today, hence the onslaught on his poor, besotted, impressionable mind. She was monstrous and deplorably cynical in her words regarding the unlucky souls of the poor villages he attends on, but despite all that, Dwight only finds himself deeper still. 

Cruel, vicious, merciless fate; to try him so, and after everything that's come to pass with Keren. He is doomed, apparently; to always set his heart on the wrong desire, always covet the woman that he simply cannot have. 

Dwight sighs and closes his eyes. Perhaps it is time for a sedative.   
***  
The oranges come as a joyous surprise, and Dwight feels that his heart might yet burst at the seams. 

He finds Caroline ready to set off on a hunt and confronts her in his usual brisk manner; unrelenting and sincere in his wishes to relay his gratitude for the bountiful, life-saving horde of citruses that all but fell into his lap. 

Color rises in her cheeks as he tells her of his fancy and her azure eyes shine brighter than they should. He has half a mind to suggest that he check for fever, but decides against it when Unwin and George show up to spoil the budding flirtation between Caroline and himself. She walks away comfortably, but not before he sees in her eyes the true measure of her interest in him. 

Dwight knows he will never sleep again.

***  
The feelings that assail him at the knowledge of her departure are most assuredly _not_ relief and consolation. A few days convince him that there can never be any assuagement for him from the infliction that is his so-called infatuation for Caroline Penvenen. He is battered by the images of her gracious neck, of the golden highlights in her wheat-colored hair, of the devilish turn of her lips when she laughs at him. Sleep eludes him on a regular basis now, leaving his wakeful nights to be filled with heartbroken sighs and the constant presence of her in his mournful mind. 

Dwight tosses and turns in his lonely bed, unable to find the slightest relief, and curses the day he ever set eyes upon Caroline Penvenen. An urgent knock on the door provides the distraction he so desperately craves and drives him out of bed with such speed that the man waiting outside is nearly knocked back at the haste with which the surgeon answers the door. Dwight tries to school his features into a semblance of professionalism when the man tells him that he's needed at a birthing; just the thing required: a long, excruciating suffering of another human being where he can _finally_ be useful.

Except, all Dwight can think about when he's there, hands deep in body fluids, is how – if their situation was different- _this_ could have been his child being born and the woman screaming bloody murder on the bed could have been Caroline. When the image of _her_ holding a fair-haired babe swims before his eyes as his fingers try to ascertain the extent of the dilation of the patient's cervix, Dwight realizes that this infatuation is probably going to be the death of him and, very likely, cause him the loss of his livelihood. 

The child is born healthy _despite_ Caroline's interference, and Dwight stumbles home in the pale light of dawn with a cheap bottle of gin as payment and a heartache so strong, that he decides to break his habit and actually drink his fee. 

Ross finds him in a sorry state a few hours later. 

Dwight vows to never drink again.

Well, at least, not gin.   
***  
He lies awake at night, the image of her exquisite face burned into his feverish brain and banning sleep from his weary eyes.

Dwight sighs and closes his eyes. It is _definitely_ time for a sedative.


End file.
